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A week of being Bea

After a pretty heavy week in politics (again!), some of us feel a little light relief is needed. Luckily much of my life is a joke, so I’ve extracted a week from my diary (Oct ’16) to share with you, in the hope of bringing you a little bit of joy, because you’re not me.

Bea x

Monday
Dropped Ben off to school successfully without any rows or tears, hurray! Given that he was up twice both Saturday and Sunday night, and we were all very tired this morning, I was extremely pleased none of us had a meltdown.

Got home with Edi and foolishly tried to do some writing but Edi kept whacking the keyboard with a carrot. When I took the carrot away she smacked the keyboard with her hand instead and I ended up with a something along the lines of: “blah-de-blah-de-dah, moan, moan, blah-de-blah-fusl’dkkhfs’fhKSRFU HOrwtpUl AGPu hAIGPpi  asdef ohQ AEPIHIHAUHPAGD{JKIAID{“s/;kagVfsAHX h,HOQG\egxgQGqigwGHQPJIP\G

Eventually I got the message and then spent the next half an hour crawling about on all fours with a rip-off My Little Pony in one hand and Edi on my back giving me full instructions on what to do, how to do it, how to breath and how long I should breath for.

Picked up Ben from school and he whined all the way home about how hungry he was, even though he was eating a packet of crisps at the time. I breathed deeply (with Edi’s permission) all the way and tried to keep my words to a friendly minimum so that I didn’t slip into a tone of voice that indicated how effing annoying I found my son.

Tuesday
Sat on a poo today. With my naked bum. Not sure whose poo it was or how it got on the loo seat, or how I didn’t notice/smell it was there before I sat on it, but it happened. What’s worse is that I didn’t notice it had happened until I stood up from the loo seat after having had a wee, and it was only when I turned to flush that I saw said poo. I was completely baffled by the small, brown, flat round object on the loo seat and for some reason decided that it couldn’t possibly be poo, so I tentatively prodded it with my finger to see if it was a huge blob of Marmite or mud. For some even more baffling reason I shall never understand about myself, I still couldn’t get my head round it being a poo (after all, how could I sit on a poo and not even realise it?) so I then sniffed my finger. It was a poo.

After a 30 minute shower in disinfectant, dismembering my forefinger and a mass bleach massacre of the toilet, I decided that the incident is not one I would recount if I’m ever unfortunate enough to be going on a first date ever again.

Today’s baffling poo experience was made all the more confusing because I’m so tired – Ben woke twice again last night. He’s always been a bad sleeper but he’s 6 now and I thought we’d be over it by this age, turns out we’re not and I’m concerned that the interrupted sleep has affected my ability to tell the difference between my going for a wee or a poo, and that perhaps I didn’t have a wee earlier today during the “sat on a poo” incident and perhaps it was my poo? If I’m honest with myself I can’t be 100 percent certain that I didn’t poo on the loo seat without realising, after all, I didn’t feel it when I sat on it… most confusing.

Note to self: After rereading today’s diary entry I have decided I’ve had too much exposure to poo in my life and have been desensitised, because I share far too easily about it. Once Edi is wiping her own bum I’m going to avoid poo (other than my own) for the rest of my life and be a normal person who screws up their nose in disgust at anything poo related. Unlike now, whereby I could talk about poo all day and not be disgusted in the least. I’m not sure that’s completely socially acceptable.

Wednesday
Ben was only up once last night. That’s better than the other nights, maybe he’ll sleep through tonight?

Another successful school drop off. That’s three in a row – we’re on a roll! Hurray! The kids spotted a strange, small, pale brown spillage on the pavement that has solidified, it’s been there for weeks but we haven’t been able to identify it to date. I have absolutely no idea what it is, but after being told at a recent dentist appointment Ben has a touch of decay, I decided to kill two birds with one stone: “Look kids, see that?”
“Yes mummy” They replied sweetly
“Well, you know those coffees big kids drink with lots of caramel and cream on top that you’re always asking for?”
“Yes?” Their eyes were wide in anticipation
“Well, you know I’m always telling you they’re bad for you and then you get really cross when I say no?”
“Yes”
“Well, I found out that spillage is one of those creamy, sugary, fat filled coffees you’re always asking me for”
“But it’s gone hard mummy?” Ben pointed out “It hasn’t dried up like the coffee stain Grandad made on the carpet”
A small “ffs” hit me remembering the foot wide stain (now underneath our sofa) on our carpet “That coffee is different” I said, carrying on with my tall tale “this coffee, has gone hard because when sugar, coffee and fat mix this is what happens.” I pointed to the solid splurge  “Can you imagine that in your stomach?” I said as horrified as I could to the children.
“Wow mummy, that’s disgusting!” said Ben filled equally with horror and glee.
“You’re quite right Ben, it is disgusting. So next time you see a big kid with one of those horrible coffees you’ll know why I say ‘no’, won’t you? I don’t want that stuff hurting your beautiful little tummies” I said pointing to the vilified mark on the ground.
“Yeah!” Agreed Ben nodding “I don’t EVER want one of those coffees in my tummy mummy”

Vile, sugary and expensive drinks – 0, Mummy – 1. Nagging kids – 503,  Mummy – 1 (at last!).

Note to self: When next making coffee cake with the kids, do not refer to butter as “fat”.

Another note to self: If I’m not letting the kids drink incredibly sugary drinks, should I  be letting them eat incredibly sugary cakes, even if they are homemade?

Another, “another note to self”: Am I a hypocrite?

Thursday
Ben was up three times last night, what is going on? Why won’t he sleep through? Help!

In a state of strange, sleepless delirium, I cut my own fringe today. What the fuck was I thinking? I obviously hadn’t learnt my lesson from the last time I did it aged 8 (just to see what would happen) and nearly 30 years later I’ve flippin’ done it again! This time I was inspired by one of the mum’s at school. Said mum, rocked up at the school gates with a freshly cut fringe looking super cool and beautiful, and I thought “Wow! If I cut my fringe like that then I’ll be super cool and beautiful too!”.  It’s daft thoughts like that, that have led me to smoke as a teenager, snog boys who were horrible on the inside and looked like bum holes on the outside, bleach my hair to a hideous shade of yellow and pluck my eyebrows to such an extent that I looked constantly surprised throughout the 90s.

MASSIVE NOTE TO SELF:  DO NOT CUT YOUR OWN FRINGE YOU DAFT COW!
I have given myself a heavy, wonky, shaggy mess that looks like the pubic hair of a mammoth (I imagine) resting above my eyebrows. Bollox.  Unfortunately, it not only looks bad, but the mammoth minge also draws attention to my scraggly eyebrows (still trying to grow them back from the 90s) and the purple bags underneath my eyes from lack of sleep. Unlike my 8 year old self, I haven’t yet cried about it, but I did teeter on the edge for a while after Ben asked me why I had “helmet hair and a weird face”.

Friday
Another great school run, that’s everyday this week – well done Ben!

Although successful for all the important reasons, I didn’t enjoy the school run due to feeling so self-conscious about my mm (mammoth minge) fringe.  We did however, bump into another family on the way to school whose husband/father is a carpenter. They didn’t mention my fringe, but on route they saw the ‘evil super-chain coffee’ welded to the floor and the mum from the family said “Oh look kids! Someone’s spilled wood glue”
“No it’s not.” Ben chipped in “My mummy said it was disgusting coffee that the big kids drink and if we drink it, it will go hard in our tummies, like that… and we’ll die!”

The other mum looked at me and raised an eyebrow, I tried to smile at her to cover up my lie but my nervous-from-having-being-busted face didn’t do it properly, so I ended up giving her a mini gurn. “I didn’t say they’d die” I managed to force out my contorted mouth.

In the afternoon the beautiful mum with the super cool fringe kindly cut my mm fringe and saved it as best it could be saved. I now look a little bit better, although Ben is still calling me “helmet hair”.

Saturday
I’ve been a bit if a cow tonight. A week of broken sleep, fringe and poo traumas have taken their toll and I finally ran out of patience today.

Dan has an annoying habit of referring to himself in the third person when he speaks to the kids, and it really bugs me. I keep my mouth shut about it 9.9 times out of 10 because it’s no big deal really, he’s talking to them kindly and with love, just in the third person. However, this evening when he was speaking to the kids and he referred to himself in the third person again it pissed me off so much that I snapped “talk properly, you third person asshole!”. I seethed it across a glass of red hovering under my evil lips, the glass filled with venomous steam and lingered for a while as I glared fire at him. I very quickly realised it was a cruel thing to say, but also immensely satisfying… and pathetic. It’s not my best insult, but I’m tired so I think I did ok given the circumstances.  But seriously, why can’t the man say “I” when he’s talking about himself to the kids? I doubt he goes into meetings at work and says “…When Dan asked you to do that very important thing by the 15th, and you haven’t done it, what do you think Dan has to tell Big Boss Man now? Hmm?” He’d be universally hated (quite rightly) and there would be targets with his face on it in every urinal and lavatory in the building. I just want to hear him say “I’ve asked you to finish your tea” or “I’d love to play with you” not “Daddy’s asked you to finish your tea” or “Daddy would love to play with you”. I have come to the conclusion he would make a terrible sailor.

It’s Dan’s turn to get up with Ben tonight  – hurray!

Sunday
Good things from this week:
– Fantastic school runs with Ben.
– Have deterred the kids from drinking nasty, sugar-riddled trendy coffees for a while, and stopped them nagging me for one.
– Ben slept through last night.
– Think I’ve knocked ‘third person talking’ out of Dan

Could have been better:
– Not done any writing
– Sat on a poo
– Had a mammoth minge fringe for a day
– Not slept much
– Ben slept through last night. (He always bloody does it when Dan’s on duty! Why won’t Ben do that on my days?)
– I think Dan is going to slip laxatives into my red wine in revenge for my being a cow. He keeps offering me a glass of wine and I found a packet of ‘make you go’ pills in his work bag (and I know, from the seemingly continuous fugg in our house, that he is definitely not constipated!). I hope having children hasn’t turned Dan and I into The Twits.

Lessons learned this week:
– Plan writing time better
– Edi is my boss
– Look on loo seats before sitting down
– Lie to children about strange stains
– I am a hypocrite
– Never cut own fringe
– Be nicer to husband
– Ben will always wake when it’s my turn to get up to him in the night. Ben will always sleep through when it’s Dan’s turn to get up to him – I need to get over it.

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